The Visiting Professor
By Robert Sachs
I bumped into Sally Ann Perchuck downtown on that crisp autumn day. We distractedly air kissed. The wind was blowing her graying hair in all directions. I thought she looked lovely. She was with a tall, skeletal man who I thought looked twice her age. “Larry, this is David Blonsley. He’s from the University of Denver. David, Larry Feldstein. He teaches at the law school.” We shook hands.
“Larry,” Sally Ann said, “be a dear and walk David over to the school. He’s lecturing in half an hour and I’m already late for an appointment on LaSalle.”
I had been heading the other way and didn’t relish the idea of walking back to DePaul, but I found it difficult to say no to Sally Ann. “Sure,” I said. “My pleasure.”
We had gone to dinner a couple of times and I had felt the stirrings of romance. I thought it might go somewhere, but after the second dinner, she declined my further invitations. “Not a good idea to get involved with a co-worker,” she had said. “Could be messy. You understand.” It wasn’t a question.
The following semester, Sally Ann was made assistant dean of the law school and I then I did understand: She knew she was up for the appointment and couldn’t take the chance of an intra-office affair getting in the way. But I was a man of dreams and I never really let go of the dream that Sally Ann and I would one day click.
I led Blonsley south on Wabash Avenue toward the law school, shielded from the sun by the elevated tracks. I found his gait unusual and annoying. His body leaned back as his left foot went forward and leaned forward as his left foot went back. It reminded me of a sauntering giraffe. I said something about the weather, but at that moment Blonsley’s head and torso lagged behind.
“Sorry, what?” Blonsley asked.
But when I repeated what I had said, Blonsley’s head and torso were ahead of him. “Again please?”
We stopped for a red light and I turned to him. “So how do you know Sally Ann?”
“She was my grad student at Grinnell back in the ‘80s.” He went on to tell me she had set up the speaking engagement at the law school.
“Sal and I had a thing back in the day.” He called her Sal.
In an instant, I hated this man. “A thing.” Having a thing with Sally Ann was something I hadn’t been able to accomplish in the seven years I’d known her. It was something I dreamed about, yearned for. And here was this aging, gawky guy with a gait disorder trumpeting his conquest to a complete stranger.
We crossed Washington heading south. “What’s your field?”
“Advertising law,” Blonsley said.
“Someone once told me half of advertising is bullshit and the job of the graduate student is to find out which half.”
“I think the quote was half of advertising works, but no one knows which half. I’ll be lecturing on the half that works in about in twenty-five minutes. And did Sal say you were with the law school?”
Like he hadn’t been listening, I thought. “Yeah. Estates and trusts.”
We were coming up to Madison. “Let’s dip in here for a quick coffee,” I said pointing at the coffee shop on the corner.
“You’re sure I won’t be late?” Blonsley asked.
“Not a problem. It’s just up the street.”
We sat on stools facing Wabash, sipping our coffees. “Get here often?” I asked.“Used to. But Sal’s gone her way and I’ve gone mine and it’s a long way from Denver to Chicago.”
I thought if he called her Sal one more time, I was going to punch his face. “Did she dump you or vice versa?” It was a bold question, impertinent perhaps, but what the hell.
“What an abomination,” Blonsley said, ignoring the question. “Those elevated tracks. They should be torn down before they fall down and kill people.”
I pointed out that millions rode the El. “I use it every day. It gets the job done.” I didn’t know why I was being so protective of the elevated trains. Normally, I bitched about them—the rolling stock was in bad shape, the infrastructure was crumbling and there were constant delays. But I heard myself saying things like “The cost-benefit ratio favors keeping the El,” and “It’s a part of our culture: It wouldn’t be the Loop without the El tracks looping around downtown, now would it?”
“Underground is the way to go,” Blonsley insisted. “The city should get rid of that eyesore.” He looked at his watch. “Don’t we need to get going?”
We crossed Monroe and caught the light at Adams. “Are you planning any extra time in Chicago?”
“Frankly, that’s up to Sal,” Blonsley said. “I’m flexible.”
I wanted to break this flexible skeleton in half. I knew we should have turned right on Jackson, if only because that’s where the law school was, but I didn’t want to disturb our rhythm. We continued walking south. When we crossed Van Buren, we left the El tracks behind.
“This is the glorious sunlight you’re missing under those tracks,” Blonsley said, looking up and spreading wide his skinny arms.
Again with the El. I wondered if Blonsley’s mother had been scared by an elevated train when she was pregnant with this bobbing and weaving giraffe.
Across Congress. We reached Harrison and I considered turning around. There was still time. If we rushed we could still make it. We could have walked over to State Street and back up to Jackson. But we didn’t. On we went heading due south. Balbo Drive was next, then Eighth Street. Ninth, Eleventh. Blonsley had worked up a sweat and he took off his sport coat and draped it over his shoulder, holding on with one finger.
When we reached Roosevelt Road, I turned from Blonsley and hailed a cab. “Must run,” I yelled. “I enjoyed our little talk. It’s just up ahead. Straight on, three or so lights. Have a great lecture.”
I felt a twinge of conscience as the cab pulled away, and fought the urge to look back at the gangly professor. Indeed, even today, three years later, I know it was wrong—“a colossal fucking character defect,” the assistant dean called it at the time—leaving Blonsley undulating back and forth, heading further and further south.
THE END